


Wheel of Westeros Book Six: Rise of Asha Part One

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 18:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21061208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Euron, wicked king of the Iron Islands introduces his niece and nephew to a potent poison. Daenerys, Queen of Mereen, makes a proposal to Victarion Greyjoy. Asha Greyjoy, tasked with conquering Oldtown for her uncle, has other plans, but can she convince her broken brother to join her?PS- I have changed "rise of Euron" to "rise of Asha" (She's rising...he's more like falling...)





	Wheel of Westeros Book Six: Rise of Asha Part One

** _The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Six: Rise of Asha Part One**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s _A Song of Ice and_ Fire series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series, _Game of Thrones_. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only _Game of Thrones_ and _A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Victarion

Victarion Greyjoy was more sure of it every time he saw her. Daenerys Targaryen _was_ the fairest woman in the world, just as Euron had said. But Euron hadn’t seen her, only Victarion had. Euron said she had silver-gold hair and eyes like amethysts,[1] and about her eyes he was right. She always painted around them in outrageous colors…lurid oranges and pinks or jade and indigo. But those eyes glittered through the paint and her thick greased lashes. They spoke even more loudly than she did.

As for her hair, Victarion hadn’t seen a strand of it, for it was always covered with headdresses made of jewels or seashell and carved wood or silver and brass. Victarion had even heard whispers that she was spear-bald. Even if that was so, her exquisite breasts and behind made up for it. Both were discernable in the gowns she typically wore, which Victarion realized were as effective weapons as swords and arrows. They were open in places where other ladies would have covered up, but if one got too close, one of Dany’s dresses could injure them, so decked out they were with sharp spikes of seashell or hooks made of metal. She always left her gowns open in the back, displaying the grisly scars that crisscrossed her pale skin, but never openly discussing how they got there. But Victarion could smell power on her like perfume. It made no matter that she was scarred and possibly bald. He could enjoy a woman without a tongue in bed; he was sure he could enjoy one without hair. Especially one who would give him dragons for sons.

She had invited him to a private supper to discuss their future as allies and perhaps more. Her brave little Naathi herald had delivered the message, after which a passel of Dothraki maids had hustled in and drawn him a bath, dumping buckets of fragrant crushed flowers, tea leaves and crystals of scented sea salt into the steaming hot water. But he shooed them off before they managed to fully undress him…he could scrub himself up on his own thanks much. Not that the idea of being sponged off by the dusky girls, with their cat-like eyes and perky young tits, wasn’t pleasurable. But it would do him no good for them to see his hand in the state that it was and then run to the queen with any information about it. If he had a chance of winning the queen’s cold little hand, he needed every advantage.

So they laid out a clean outfit, newly made just for him…a gift from the queen. Then they smiled wryly, bowed, and took their leave. Before he stepped into the tub, Victarion examined his new clothes and nodded, satisfied, for the work was very good indeed. The tunic and trousers were made of the softest boiled leather as black as pitch, sewn with braided gold threads. The jerkin was the same black leather, with the sigil of the kraken on its side embroidered in fine gold thread, its tentacles extending across the middle and under the arms to the back. Around the collar, sewn in bright red and gold, were embroidered flames. The buttons, Victarion observed with a smile, were shaped like hearts.

When he emerged from his bath, Victarion was cleaner than he’d been in months, but this made the smell emanating from his hand more noticeable. _Damned red priest_, Victarion thought. He bellowed for Moqorro, who was in the adjoining chamber, probably praying about darkness and terrors or staring into the flames or whatever nonsense. When he finally heard the knock, he called him in. “Moqorro…get in here you red cunt!”

Moqorro came in and then shut the door quickly behind him. He too must have received gifts, for his faded and tattered robe had been replaced with a new one of brilliant crimson silk. His black skin shone beneath the flames tattooed on his cheeks, and his silver hair gleamed. He brought with him the scent of cloves and some sort of Lyseni cologne.

“So my prince…you seal your betrothal with the Mother of Dragons this evening,” Moqorro wasted no time in saying.

“Don’t play with me, priest,” Victarion snarled.

“This is no game, dear prince,” Moqorro said. “I have seen it in the flames.”

“Euron would call it a game…are you sure it wasn’t him in your sacred fire? Did you deliver my letter?”

“Yes and yes…though I must recommend you end communication with him. At least until you have the queen’s hand in marriage.”

“So you’ve told me. Ay, I’ll stay quiet. Let him attempt to reach me and see where it gets him…”

Victarion would never admit aloud that Moqorro had impressed him, but he had proven valuable, and while Victarion’s prayers to the Drowned God had almost always gone unanswered, Moqorro’s Red God had shown his face more than once. First, he had been right about the Dragonbinder, the horn Euron had given him which could control dragons._ Do not tell Daenerys of the horn_, Moqorro had said. _She has already joined minds with the dragons…the horn will only seem to her a threat._ Sure enough, Dany seemed able to give the beasts an order – burn this flank, burn that ship, eat the goats we raised for you and not the local children – and they followed her command. With the horn, he could snatch that command away from her…but there was no need for that just yet. Now it seemed that R’hllor had moved into the Great Pyramid and was there to stay. It made sense, for the red priestesses and their followers believed fire was life, and Dany was rumored to have dived into the flaming pyre with her dead Dothraki husband, only to emerge unburnt with her baby dragons cuddled up against her like nursing pups. Meanwhile, the Drowned God had placed Euron’s foul arse on the Seastone Chair while Victarion was sent over the sea to die. Had he not found Moqorro, Victarion would have made a go at blowing Dragonbinder himself, which would have killed him as it had Cragorn, Euron’s man who blew it at the Kingsmoot. _Perhaps it is a time to rethink my faith,_ Victarion thought. But he banished the thought immediately. _No…I must remain faithful to the god of my fathers if I am to deserve the Iron Islands…and yet._

“This damned hand. I need to do something about it before I dine with her grace,” he told Moqorro. “Pick up those bandages and help me.”

The maids had left a pile of fresh linen bandages along with a jug of hot vinegar and water. Before Moqorro retrieved them, Victarion began to unwrap his hand himself, slowly. The bandages came loose with difficulty, stuck together with blood and pus, collecting at his feet like a coiled snake. He would let the priest examine it before sponging it off and smearing it with the same poultice he had done before. Perhaps he would soak it in the bath water, so as to dilute its repugnant smell. Strangely, it didn’t hurt, even as he tugged on the bandages, and the smell had turned to something less like rot and more like the smell of a dead jellyfish washed up on the rocky beaches at the foot of Pyke. It was still a foul odor to be sure, but it reminded him of home.

As the end of the bandages was peeled away, Victarion became alarmed to see that something was very wrong here. He thought for a moment he saw his fingers, pinkish grey and very swollen, but they were laying the wrong way…sideways when they should obviously have been pointing upward. When the bandages fell away, he saw that they were pocked with round indentations like craters. _No…like suckers._ Then Victarion Greyjoy watched as the “fingers” of his left hand unfolded, opening up so that he could see they were no fingers at all. They were but one protrusion that grew from his wrist and danced slowly like a worm on a fisherman’s hook, the end like a fleshy club. What had once been his hand was, undeniably, a kraken’s tentacle.

Chapter 2: Euron

A storm was raging on Pyke – the kind of wild and dangerous storm Euron Greyjoy loved. The kind that sent the rope bridges swaying and twisting, that sent his brother Balon fluttering away in the wind like a grey leaf after he’d tossed him over. Euron could feel the Sea Tower groaning and threatening to topple from off the ragged narrow clutch of rocks that remained beneath it. _Let it crumble,_ he thought as he stirred the pot of squid ink before him with the tip of his newly sharpened dirk. _Let it wash away._ Soon, he’d have a new castle on the other side of Westeros.

He had invited his niece Asha and nephew Theon to his chambers to speak privately. Even though Asha was a rival for the Seastone Chair, going up against him at the kingsmoot, he had to admit it took some balls to try. Then she’d gone up against Stannis Baratheon and not only survived, but managed to escape the old stag by convincing him to behead Theon at a heart tree in the Northern way. A snowstorm had blown in, and Stannis was distracted when Dragonstone was taken by the Targaryen pretender. Asha stole two horses and took Theon with her, making for the coast. She was worse for wear when they finally docked at Lordsport, but Euron found Theon unrecognizable. His hair had gone completely white, and half of his fingers and teeth were gone. He walked, or shuffled, with his shoulders hunched, and the skin hung off his cheeks like an old man’s. He looked older than his father Balon had when Euron killed him. That was the consequence of trying to take Winterfell, a castle much too far from the sea for a green boy like him to claim. Winterfell would bend the knee to Euron in time, but it was Oldtown he had eyes on next. Asha had known better than to join Theon in his fool’s venture, though Euron couldn’t help but think she would have had a better chance.

At the knock on his door, Euron beckoned his niece and nephew to enter. Earlier Asha had knelt immediately in apology and acknowledgment of his rule…or at least it looked like she knelt. She may have just lost her footing from exhaustion. Theon practically fell on his face. They had been immediately locked in the newly outfitted dungeons, but not for long. The cells were already starting to get crowded, first of all. He of course considered just slaughtering the prisoners taken from his fleet’s exploits along the coast, which were going marvelously since the Lannister queen and the silver-haired boy from Essos were keeping each other busy. But if he killed them all, who would build the new Iron Fleet? The fact was, Ironborn weren’t much for grunting labor. If it meant their life, that might be different. But Westeros would benefit greatly from slavery, Euron was sure.

Asha was wearing a gown of dark blue wool that was too small for her. It had belonged to one of Lord Hewett’s daughters, whom Euron had forced to serve his men naked when he took their castle. The bust squeezed Asha’s breasts together alluringly, probably pinching her under the arm. The skirt was too short, and Asha’s boots showed beneath, virtually in shreds. Theon was dressed in the clothing he’d left before he sailed for Winterfell: the trousers, tunic and doublet that he’d gotten while a ward of the Starks. It was a fine outfit, but Theon still looked like a rat in the rain. Euron rose to greet them.

“My sweet niece and nephew,” Euron said. “Welcome.”

As he spoke, he patted Theon on the back so hard he nearly fell over (again), and he smacked Asha firmly on the behind. To her credit, the girl didn’t even flinch. She merely smirked a little and kissed him on the cheek.

“Nuncle,” Asha muttered.

“We shall have to get you some new boots. These are fit for the rubbish pile,” Euron said. “I could say the same about you, Theon. You look like a piece of bread that fell on the floor do you know that?”

Theon nodded, looking at his feet as usual. A flash of lightning turned it to daytime in the room for a second before a crash of violent thunder shook the tower.

“Ah…I do love a good storm,” Euron said. “_Seven Hells there’s something horrible in the hall behind you!”_

“It is me, it is me it is me my king king king,” said Emmond Stormsong, who was becoming a real barnacle on Euron’s ass.

“I’m not blind,”[2] Euron said, flipping open the patch that covered his black eye, then flipping it back down so that only the blue one showed. “Come in already…and shut the door.”

“I bring I bring Falia’s bane, Falia’s bane, Falia’s bane your grace. The Storm God is strong is strong with Pyke with Pyke with Pyke this this this night,” Emmond said. He carried a tray with a crock, a spoon, and four cups, which he set on Euron’s table.

“What in the stormy fucking sea is that piss?” Asha asked. Euron wasn’t sure if she meant what was on the tray or Emmond himself.

After Euron did away with Aeron Damphair, his brother and high priest of the Drowned God, he needed a replacement. Ironborn needed some kind of spiritual direction, though Euron preferred the Storm God and felt it was time for his return. So to ordain him, he tied Emmond to a high part of the Great Keep during another storm, and he was subsequently struck by a minor bolt of lightning. Now he had a streak of white hair down the center of his skull, and tended to repeat parts of whatever he said two and sometimes three times.[3] Euron went ahead and shaved everything but the white parts, and now Emmond had it braided with seaweed. He was a fright to look upon, and lately had been a little pious for Euron’s taste. He was beginning to remind him of Damphair, who died on the prow of his ship _Silence_ weeks earlier. But it was little matter, as for Euron he served mainly as a chemist, rather than a priest.

Euron took Victarion’s letter from the pocket of his robe (which he wore with nothing underneath) and handed it to Theon, ordering him to read it. Obediently, his nephew complied in a wavering, sorrowful voice.

“Dear brother, I write to you to confirm my safe arrival at the Great Pyramid of Mereen, despite some storms that did run us ragged for a while. Daenerys Targaryen has been gracious enough to host us, and she is as fair as you say. It seems she has no use of the horn, as she has become of a mind with her dragons, but I will keep it safe until I return. I have told the queen of your great deeds and courage, and she is open to a betrothal, but wishes myself and the Iron Fleet to stay on in Mereen and assist her with remaking certain trade routes as a precaution against the current plague of bloody flux. She says she hopes to meet you soon, and sends you a kiss. Until time when I return, your brother and loyal subject, Victarion Greyjoy.”

Euron snatched the letter from Theon when he was done, and held it open to show Asha the kiss print at the bottom, made supposedly by Daenerys Targaryen’s own painted lips.

“Look at that,” Euron said to Asha.

“Oh how sweet a kiss,” Asha said snarkily. “Quite good penning for Victarion too. Not a word misspelled…”

“Exactly!” Euron snapped, balling the letter up and stuffing it down Asha’s cleavage. He stomped over to his table and took the lid off the crock, then spooned out the brownish green powder into each cup.

“Water,” he said, pointing at Emmond, who hopped over to the hearth and grabbed the jug of water that had been warming there. He handed it to Euron, who poured it onto the powder in each cup, stirring it all into a solution.

“If I may if I may my king king king. I don’t agree with agree with agree with giving the bane giving the bane to a woman woman woman…” Emmond stammered.

“You don’t think my niece can handle it?” Euron said.

“I can handle anything! Wait…what is it?” Asha asked.

“It is the very thing that happens when soil meets the sea, my beloved. When I was in the dungeon of this old Myrish sorcerer named Yaran, I was starving. He never fed me, but I lived on this foul green fungus that grew on the floor. I realized in time that I loved it…not because of the taste. It tastes like a mouthful of corpse dick…”

“You know this by experience?” Asha asked. Theon gazed at her in horror.

Euron picked up one of the cups and swirled it around before downing it and then wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his robe.

“I like you, niece. You’re amusing. So few people amuse me,” Euron continued. He picked up two cups and handed one each to Emmond and Theon. Then he picked up the last cup and approached Asha, before Emmond held up his hand in protest.

“Please now please now please now my king king king,” Emmond said. “This is not to be shared with the women with the women with the women.”

Euron put the cup back on the table, then went to his desk and again began to stir the tip of his dirk in the pot of squid ink.

“Perhaps you’re right. Women aren’t like us it’s true. You can’t trust them any more than you can trust a dragon. You can’t know the moves they mean to make. Can’t decipher them…”

“Horse shit!” Asha said. “_When the soil meets the sea_…what the fuck does that mean? You want to know where the soil meets the sea?”

Asha bent down and pulled up her skirt, then she yanked down her the bottoms of her small clothes to pull them off, stomped over to Emmond, and began to draw them slowly back and forth across his face beneath his nose.

“This…is where…soil…meets…the sea!” [4]

Then she threw them at Emmond’s chest, off of which they bounced before falling to the wet floor. Emmond and Theon both stared mouths agape. Asha went over to the table, picked up the cup and drank it down. Euron laughed deep down in his belly. The Bane was already working. He could feel it warming his brain, the tingling behind his eyes. He removed his eye patch, revealing again the eye that was as black as a rat’s, and took the dirk from the pot of ink, bringing the tip to his cheek. As the blade pierced his skin, a trickle of blood mixed with ink ran down to his chin.

“That is why you’ll be the captain who takes Oldtown for me, niece. That, Emmond, Theon…that is the spirit of a conqueror!”

He drew the blade very slowly over his cheek in a dipping motion, making a cut like a tiny horseshoe, then bringing it up again to make another. Asha came up and stood next to him, watching. He began to giggle uncontrollably, and had to put the knife down.

“I have to laugh. Because I’ve often asked myself…” He composed himself before picking it up again. “My prey, my torment, is a dragon…and in order to conquer her, I have to think like a dragon, to act like a dragon, and…whenever possible…to look like one.” He stood up and faced Asha. “I have to get inside this bitch’s scales and crawl around for a few days.[5] This is what the Bane can do for me…for us…”

He put an arm around Asha’s waist, and put his tongue deep into her mouth just as Theon, who had been cowering in the corner, fainted away onto the floor.

Chapter 3: Victarion

Dany’s city may have been plague-ridden and under siege, but her cooks could still put on a marvelous spread. Most of them had been slaves before she took them on, so their dishes were likely laced with gratitude and love: goat flank marinated in a plum-and-cherry sauce, blood sausage pies, a bisque of shrimp and persimmon, oysters in vinegar, pomegranate salad, and loads of juicy melon that some clever kitchen wench had shaped into a dragon. There was sweet red wine and pear brandy to drink, and chewy ginger candy if anyone cared to clean their palate. Victarion normally didn’t care for such dainty treats, but Dany had made a point of seating herself rather close to him, and he thought his breath could use it. If he played it right, perhaps he could steal a kiss.

The queen looked a deal softer than usual for their supper together. He had never seen her in any color other than black or dark red, but now she wore a light gown made of numerous folds of silk the color of the dawn sky. Her arms were bare as were her shoulders, but otherwise the gown was relatively modest. There was no peek of breast or hip as there normally was, and her hideously scarred back, thank the gods, was hidden as well. Her eyes were dusted with pink powder in a way that opened them up rather than cut them at everyone in the room, and her lips were painted the same purple as the swamp flowers that Victarion remembered from his childhood. She still tipped her fingers with artificial claws, but these were smaller and ended with tiny pearls instead of sharp points. Her head was still covered, but Victarion noticed that this headdress was fashioned with large round feathers of sea coral, dissected conchs and spirals of other shells, trimmed with rosy saltwater pearls that dangled past her ears to her delicate shoulders.

“Inspired by the sea,” she said when Victarion complimented it. “And those who have crossed it to share my home with me.”

She smiled rather sweetly. If he were a weaker man, he would have melted. “I’m honored your grace. You’ve been a gracious host…and I must admit I was mistaken. I never thought a woman could rule a city…but you’ve done damn well here.”

“And yet?” The queen had a chilling way of catching that which people tried not to say.

“I can’t help but think it’s a bit much for a girl all on her own. So young and, forgive me, so puny.” He gently placed his good thumb and forefinger around her tiny wrist.

“I’ve had challenges to be sure. Don’t think I’m not humble, my lord. I know I would be nowhere without my dragons, my soldiers, and my wise advisors. A queen it seems is no better than those who follow her.”

“For a king one might say the same I suppose.”

Dany took her wrist from him and placed her own hand on the bandaged that hid his deformity. Victarion ground his teeth and resisted the urge to slap it away.

“My lord, have you still not healed? Perhaps Maester Marwyn might help you.”

“It’s healed well enough. But it’s…deformed. Not for the eyes of a beautiful queen.”

He had nearly killed Moqorro, wrapping the tentacle around his black neck and squeezing. Moqorro, choking, had muttered something about the Lord of Light before Victarion had screamed…_Curse your god! I am the Drowned God’s servant!_ To that, Moqorro had said something that made Victarion release him immediately. _Don’t you see_, he had said, _YOU are the Drowned God…_

He pulled the disguised tentacle away from the queen’s hand. Her eyes sparkled.

“My eyes have seen things you could never imagine, sailor, and besides…if we are to marry, I must see it at some point.”

Victarion cursed his heart for skipping a beat. “Your grace?”

Dany took a sip of pear brandy and crossed her legs beneath the folds of her gown. “I’ve thought some time about your proposal, and the truth is I need the Iron Fleet. I need to enact some authority within the trade routes coming from the West and the South…”

“To keep more of the plague from coming in, you’ve said as much.”

“Not just the plague, my lord. Slaves too are arriving constantly…some of them coming from your own country and mine. Westerosi smallfolk who received no protection from the likes of Cersei Lannister.”

“Euron,” Victarion said grimly. “He wants to keep slaves on the Iron Islands. If he seizes the Iron Throne…”

“He won’t.” Dany leaned in close and laid a hand on his arm. Victarion took it in his good hand.

“No…and I will stop any slave ship that comes into the territory you’ve placed in my charge. I’ll kill every slaver on board and send the smallfolk back home unchained.”

“Swear this to me, and I will give you my hand. But I’m afraid I cannot give you a son, for I am cursed to be barren.”

Victarion knew it was too good to be true. He didn’t try to hide his disappointment.

“What I can give you,” Dany continued. “Is a city.”

“Your grace?”

“Do this work for me, and I will take Volantis for you to rule as a _truly_ free city. Marry me and treat me gently and with respect, and I will give you Lys as well.”

Victarion was never meant to be a father perhaps. He knew what it meant to be cursed well enough. Without speaking, he peeled the bandages from the tentacle slowly, keeping his eyes locked with Dany’s. When he revealed the horrifying appendage, the queen didn’t scream or gasp. She reached out and stroked it very gently.

“Thank you, Victarion Greyjoy, for sharing this truth with me…” She stood and then leaned down to kiss him gently on the mouth. Her lips tasted like pomegranate and brandy. “Now my lord, before we seal our engagement, there is something I must share with you.”

They left the dining hall and walked out into the wide courtyard, where her dragons sometimes came to sleep and feed between their travels, for the queen allowed them a great deal of freedom, despite her ability to control them with a thought. The green one stood alone, towering over the palm trees that swayed in the evening breeze. His golden eyes glittered, and Victarion became nervous in spite of himself. This was either the best day or the last day of his life, he realized. Dany walked right up to the dragon and stroked his gigantic snout.

“The dragons are the only children I will ever have,” Dany said. “The witch’s betrayal robbed me of motherhood, just as my current husband’s betrayal robbed me of a city.”

As she spoke, Victarion heard the distinct sound of a man in mortal fear and distress. He turned to see two Unsullied soldiers pulling a very resistant prisoner along, his hands bound, whimpering and pleading. The man wore what the locals called a tokar, but it was filthy and in shreds. His amber skin was dirty, the streaks from tears making his face a mess of stripes. His reddish hair was matted.

“Victarion Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, meet Hizdhar zo Loraq, my husband, who attempted to murder me while conspiring with my enemies…”

“My queen…I beg you!” Loraq cried out. She ignored him.

“I will now seal our betrothal, Victarion, and demonstrate the fate of those who betray me while enjoying my bed.”

She turned then to the dragon, and with one word – _dracarys_ – sent Hizdahr zo Loraq into a hell of flame. Before he finished screaming, the beast clamped his jaws down on the man’s flaming head, and ripped him in half.

Victarion nodded, and put his arm in the queen’s. They watched the green dragon dine together.

Chapter 4: Theon

Darkness closed in on Theon …as it often did lately, even when he was awake and sober. Sometimes, the walls around him just seemed to transform and become as deeply black as ink, as charred flesh… as a crow’s eye.

Euron had poisoned him. He was dying for sure. He welcomed it. He had stopped Asha from begging for his life, not knowing her intent was only to distract and delay Stannis. Having his head removed by Stannis’s Lightbringer before a weirwood tree didn’t frighten him. Ramsay had removed many of his fingers and toes, his manhood, a nipple…chunks of flesh here and there. He was not a whole man and never would be again. He would never lay with a woman or father a child, much less take a seat on the Seastone Chair like his father before him. What point was there in living, even if he had a right to live, which he did not. He had betrayed the memory of Ned Stark and betrayed Robb Stark…the only brother he’d ever really known. The castle that had cradled him was now a ruin overrun by Boltons, thanks to his treachery. He hardly knew the brazen young man named Theon Greyjoy who had raised his sword against Winterfell in an attempt to win it for his father. That man was gone. For a while he had been Reek, familiar and servant to Ramsay Bolton, less human than the rats who scurried after scraps and the worms who crawled in the soil. Reek was Ramsay’s plaything, his personal swine.

Now Theon was Theon again, but what did that mean? His mind asked the question as his face met the wet stones on the floor of Euron’s chamber. Where was the father he’d been so anxious to impress? Gone…thrown to the sea by Euron, who no doubt wanted an end to any competition for rule of the Iron Islands. As the darkness enveloped him, Theon prayed to the Drowned God to grant him death, for if Ramsay was the head of evil, Euron was the heart.

Suddenly, Theon was back in Winterfell, inside the Great Hall, where a feast was being held. Theon could smell the roasted pork and the cream of potato stew flavored with leeks. He could hear laughter. But he wasn’t laughing, nor was he seated at the table with the Starks and Jon Snow and their guests. He crawled beneath benches and tables, where guests would slip a scrap of gristle or a bit of apple cake or potato between his lips. Occasionally, they would wipe their greasy fingers on his back. Then suddenly, the hall became deathly quiet, and in the center of the room, a woman in a crimson gown sat playing a lute. She was a priestess of R’hllor, a red witch, and what was she doing there? She began to sing, and though her voice was soft and sweet, the song was not:

_The wind blows cold as the days begin to wane._

_ The lord of the dead assumes his throne._

_ When men have gone and only ghosts remain,_

_ that which was secret is known…_

_ Tears of sorrow flood the land. _

_ All that has been shall be again,_

_ and the moon shines over the sea_

_ as the mother of man._

_ Somewhere seven ships collide,_

_ and seven sailors lose their lives,_

_ but their voyage continues on the other side…**[6]**_

Suddenly, the warm and friendly faces in the hall went dark, and the feasting tables were occupied by rotting corpses, the flesh desiccated and falling from the bones and worms writhing from eye sockets and between gnashing teeth.

Theon ran terrified from the hall only to find himself in a chamber he recognized all too well. The same cross on which Ramsay Bolton had tortured and mutilated him, stood in the corner, a cruel reminder of the way Ramsay would peel the skin from a part of his body and leave it to fester and throb until Theon begged him to cut it off. When Theon passed it by to run out the door on the other side of the room, it turned itself toward him, following him like eyes, scraping across the stone floor. As he dashed away in a panic, Theon heard it sliding after him. [7] He tried to cry _Nooooooo_, but no sound would come.

When he finally escaped and ran out of open gate into the snow, the world went entirely white. Theon could see neither behind nor in front of him. Suddenly, a roar thundered above him, but it was not the winter wind. A dragon the size of a small fishing boat landed before him, with glimmering silver scales and purple eyes. Theon waited for it to devour him, but its eyes were set upon something else that approached in the distance. A white direwolf, larger than the largest horse he’d ever seen, ran at full speed toward the dragon, growling and baring his teeth. The beasts proceeded to attack each other, clawing and biting each other’s flesh. To Theon’s surprise, the wolf soon got the best of the dragon, pinning it to the snowy ground. Theon was further shocked as he watched wolf began to mount the dragon, and heard the dragon’s roars become squeals of terror…or was it ecstasy?

Then a red-haired woman, tall and beautiful, stood beside him wearing a purple gown and a crown made of steel spikes. He realized that it was Sansa Stark, and he opened his mouth to say he was sorry, sorry for destroying her home, for betraying her family. But it was Sansa who spoke. _Theon_, she said, not angrily or with any sorrow, before a green flame erupted from the side of her face and engulfed them both.

Theon awoke laying on his back. Emmond was slowly and meticulously drawing the blade of a dagger over his face. He did not protest or try to move, but when he heard the sounds of Euron and Asha in the adjoining room, a tear fell from his eye, stinging the wound.

Chapter 5: Asha

There was no sense in grieving. Theon was dead. But Asha was not alone. She could feel her men’s devotion to her in the way they prepared the ships to set sail, could smell it when they loaded supplies: provisions, weapons, barrels of ale. The most important cargo, the chest that held the sacks of powder and jars of precious spores, she left to those she trusted most of all. Tris Botley, Rodrik the Reader and her lover Qarl carried those particular chests with the care one might take with a newborn. She had all the men and all the love she needed. She didn’t need Theon.

Yet, even with the glorious possibilities ahead of her, it made Asha sad. She remembered what a terrible baby Theon was…bawling all the time, never sleeping. One night he just wouldn’t shut up – screaming like a dying pig. She had walked over to his crib and looked down at him, wanting to strangle him. But then he had looked up at her and stopped screaming. He smiled at her.[8] Since that time, she’d had a special love for her little brother – one the other men in her family probably wouldn’t understand. Now the brother she had doted upon was gone, replaced by a creature with no courage and no will. She couldn’t deny it left a hole in her heart.

But she couldn’t let her sorrow show – not now – when her men were about to take the risk of a lifetime for her. Some of them would be killed – perhaps all of them. Many would live but never see their homes again. Instead, they would live among foreigners in a world very different from the Iron Islands. She couldn’t give in to regret and despair when she had this crew, standing up for her and following her when others would lay down and be left behind. She forced herself not to think of Theon’s fate when Euron discovered he refused to go with her to Oldtown. What she really had to be prepared for was the onslaught when Theon finally cracked and told her uncle her real plans. It was just a matter of time.

The fungus – Falia’s Bane, named after Lord Hewett’s bastard daughter who wound up without a tongue on the prow of _Silence_ along with uncle Aeron – had brought about a revelation. It had been there all along, but it took the dope to bring it to the surface of her mind. She saw herself wearing a crown of seaweed and conch shells – not the driftwood crown of her father, but a crown altogether her own. She saw the sea open up like a pair of arms and cradle her, rocking her gently and carrying her to a bright Eastern shore. _Fantastic_, she had thought, then, _wait a moment…Euron is raping me._ But she wasn’t there. She was on the steps of the Great Pyramid of Mereen, clasping arms with the Dragon Queen. Euron went at her for most of the night. Between times, he quaffed gulps of Shade of the Evening and promised to make her a queen. _Take Oldtown for me_, _niece, and I will give you Seven Kingdoms_. He had a horn, he told her, that could control dragons. He’d crafted and given a false one to Victarion, who should have died already. When the queen came for the real one, he’d take her tongue and then take her dragons before throwing her into the sea. _Then you’ll be my wife,_ he slurred before passing out.

It was true…not only the ravings of a drugged lunatic. Euron still had the Hellhorn and planned to use it, though he had to kill the Targaryen queen first. He had also told her there were bags and bags of Falia’s Bane in Emmond’s chambers, along with all the means to make more of it. She made her plans with Tris and her uncle Rodrik, and the very next morning, after all was set, Asha went to Theon. She had roused her broken little brother out of the fetal position where he lay on the floor and sat next to him.

“Still won’t sleep in a bed?” Asha asked.

Theon shook his head, his chin on his chest. Even when he slept all night, he looked like he didn’t sleep a wink. The kraken that creepy Emmond had made across his face with the dirk dipped in ink was still seeping blood. Asha had thankfully gotten only a heart about the size of a dandelion flower just under the corner of her eye. Euron had made it himself after tattooing his own face with a hundred “dragon scales.”

“Brother,” Asha had said to Theon, clutching his hand in hers. “I need to tell you what happened the night we took Falia’s Bane. First, you tell me…what did you see?”

Theon told her his visions, which had been even more extensive and vivid than hers. His whole body began to shake as he spoke of it. When she told him how she’d clasped arms with the Dragon Queen as if in a pact together, Asha thought she saw some light come into his eyes.

“What does it mean?” Theon asked.

“It means, dear brother, that we have an opportunity to make ourselves richer than any king in this cursed country who ever lived…that’s what it means. But we have to be brave as balls to make it happen. Stronger than we were before Ramsay Bolton broke you and before Euron raped me.”

Theon hung his head again, and Asha took his chin and raised his head up so his eyes met hers.

“You’re Ironborn, Theon. I know you’ve had a bad time. I get it, believe me. But I’m tired of watching you cower like a beat dog. I won’t do it anymore…” She clasped the nape of Theon’s neck and pulled his face close to hers. “Now listen to me…I need you. The real Theon Greyjoy not this ratshit pretender. Can you find him for me?”

Theon sniffled. He cried so easily now. Asha for one thought her tear ducts had shriveled and dried up a long way back. Even being raped hadn’t brought a tear to her eye. She tried to remember that what Theon had gone through with Ramsay had been worse – all that a raped woman could relate to and much more.

“We’ll get justice for you,” she said.

“If I got justice my burned body would be hanging over the gates of Winterfell…”

“Fuck justice then…we’ll get revenge. Listen…if you’re so broken that there’s no coming back, take a knife and cut your wrists. End it. But if you’re still Theon, I need you. We’re going to sail right past Oldtown. Fuck Euron and Oldtown. We’re going to Mereen, and we’re taking enough of that fungus powder to fill a ship and the spores it takes to grow it. We’re going to make a secret pact with this Dragon Queen and sell Falia’s Bane to all of Essos…”

“But Euron will…”

“Not if we’re quicker than he is. Not if we’re smarter. And not if we have the dragons to protect us.”

“But Victarion…”

“Victarion’s Hellhorn is a fake, and once the queen knows Euron’s plan, she’ll have to repay us. We’ll live like the prince and princess we were born to be! Are you with me?”[9]

For a moment, there was a glimmer in Theon’s wet, vacant eyes – a small trace of the willful brother she once know. Then, as soon as it appeared, the glimmer faded. Theon pulled away from her.

“I can’t…no. I won’t go.” He struggled to his feet, wrenching away from her grasp, and refused to look her in the eye.

Asha rose and stood before him. “That’s it? You will abandon me?”

“I can’t go with you.”

Asha punched him square in the jaw and he went down hard. She heard him sobbing as she walked away down the hall.

Now, as she stood before her men, ready to set sail on a route meant for Oldtown that would soon take a wide detour, she imagined Theon somewhere among them, paralyzed by fear and pain. As she spoke, her voice booming out over the salty air, rallying the men for the glorious path ahead of them, she spoke directly to that terror and pain. Theon’s. Hers. Every salt wife who lost her tongue and suffered rape after rape. Every flayed men who bled in the courtyard of Winterfell. Every soldier who saw his comrades maimed and dying all around him. Every maiden sold to a Lord she didn’t love. Every slave who felt the lash on his back. The men howled their affirmation with every sentence.

“We don’t run from fear or pain…we sail into it! And then to glory and wealth like no Ironborn has ever known! Let Euron have the Seven Kingdoms…I will give you the world!”

In moments, the ships were manned and the sails were raised. As Asha’s own ship, the _Black Wind_, began to depart from the shore of Lordsport, she saw a lone figure running toward them down the dock. It was a man, running with great effort, for he was hobbled in a way that affected his stride. When he was halfway down the dock, Asha recognized him.

“Theon!”

He ran all the way to the end of the dock and leapt, but couldn’t get enough air to make the deck. Instead, he fell against the prow, grasping at a rope with all he had. Asha ran madly to pull him up, with Qarl and Tris beside her. When he was finally on board, he collapsed in exhaustion.

“For you…just for you,” he said.

Asha put her arms around his neck. “Our life begins now, brother,” she said.

[1] Martin, George R. R. _A Feast For Crows._ New York: Bantam, 2005. (443).

[2] Saunders, Jennifer and Dawn French. _Absolutely Fabulous._ Season 1, Episode 4: “Iso Tank”.

[3] Hughes, John. _The Great Outdoors._ Universal Pictures, 1988.

[4] Hudlin, Reginald. _Boomerang_. Paramount Pictures, 1992.

[5] Ramis, Harold. _Caddyshack_. Orion Pictures, 1980.

[6] The Sword. “The Veil of Isis.” _Apocryphon_. 2012. Razor & Tie Recordings.

[7] Craven, Wes. _The Serpent and the Rainbow._ Universal Pictures, 1988.

[8] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss. Game of Thrones. Season 2, Episode 8: “The Prince of Winterfell.”

[9] Benioff and Weiss. Game of Thrones. Season 6, Episode 7: “The Broken Man.”


End file.
